


Flowers Will Grow (From My Bones)

by depozyt



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Body Horror, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nymphs & Dryads, Plague, unrequited doyu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depozyt/pseuds/depozyt
Summary: Doyoung doesn't wish for the death to come. But he also doesn't wish with all of his remaining hope to survive. Mentally he's in the limbo between restless, stubborn fight and quiet, passive acceptance.(Doyoung has survived the apocalypse but it doesn't mean much to him, at least until he finds Jungwoo.)
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Kim Jungwoo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Flowers Will Grow (From My Bones)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kontrap0st](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kontrap0st/gifts).



> this sat in my drafts for... *checks notes* 8 months! yikes!
> 
> but i reread it, and while the syntax is clunky at times and there are a few minor scenes missing, i simply like this AU too much to let it rot on my hard drive :')
> 
> TWs: graphic descriptions of drowning, minor character death, disease, suicidal ideation (?), just yk heavy stuff in general
> 
> for z, who encourages me to write, even when i doubt myself.

_Cold._

The only thing Jungwoo feels is the sensation of cold water surrounding him. It's penetrating his soaked clothes, directly touching his bare skin and making him shiver. His eyes are wide open but there's nothing to see in the neverending darkness, black covering everything in sight. Still, he’s blinking rapidly trying to adjust his vision. 

He's holding his breath, releasing a bit of air from time to time, little bubbles dancing on their way up, but with each passing second, it's getting harder and harder, his lungs starting to burn. He's moving his legs and arms frantically, trying to get to the surface, _to breathe_. But there's a mysterious force pulling him down, and down, and no matter with how much force he's moving his legs, he can't stop sinking and sinking. He knows that if he doesn’t do something, anything, he’ll drown, he’ll die. 

Nevertheless, the force is still relentlessly pulling him down, and he’s wasting his last seconds on desperately moving his limbs to no effect. His lungs finally give out, and he breathes in the cold liquid. It flows down his nostrils and throat, filling his mouth, leaving a muddy aftertaste. At first, there’s the shock of how wrong, how unnatural and how frightening it feels to have your lungs weighted down by frigid fluid. To feel your organs cool off from the inside.

Then, bit by bit, he feels his body go limp, his brain slowly shutting down. There’s no more panic. There’s nothing he can do, nobody to save him from the tight embrace of the depths. His body keeps on sinking to the bottom of the lake, his mind going blank. There’s only the cold water comforting him in his last seconds.

***

Doyoung wakes up to the sound of Yuta's voice. 

“The radio's working again!” the other man almost screams into his ear.

“What are they saying?” he asks, his voice still rough from the nap. Yuta's face lits up, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Even though the grogginess, Doyoung can tell that something good has happened.

“The train will be here in less than a day.” The answer surprises Doyoung. He didn't expect the next train so quickly, he's been at the station for about three weeks, waiting patiently for a chance to get to a government facility. But all the trains so far have been packed to the brim.

It's frustrating, really, he knows there are people at the station (Yuta for example) who have been waiting here for _months._ But even, or maybe especially, during an apocalypse, Doyoung isn't a patient man. The helplessness has settled deep in his bones, burning his insides every time he can't control anything, which is most of the time. 

People don't like calling the outbreak an “apocalypse”. In Doyoung's opinion, it's their hope screaming louder than their reason. But it's the kind of hope that rings hollow on closer inspection. The one that gives birth to fools, and foolish, desperate decisions.

Doyoung hears the announcement repeated in at least three other languages. The radio is standing on a small table in the corner of a brightly lit, spacious room. The place they live in is an old waiting room in a local train station, which was taken over by other citizens seeking refuge. 

The floor is covered by dozens of different colored carpets, swirly patterns fighting with solid colors and various types of stripes. There’s also a bit of furniture, dinner tables, chairs, and folding beds spread unevenly around the room. A kitchen of sorts has been sectioned off in the old staff room. Someone got their hands on a dozen or so of gas stoves and brought them here.

All the appliances were taken from the nearby houses, which were left abandoned to rot, and waste, or brought here by the owners themselves. Some people live in big tents, set up in the middle of the room, while the less fortunate try to fence themselves off with windbreaks or bed sheets nailed to the walls. 

Neither Doyoung nor Yuta own a tent, so they sleep on the neatly layered pile of all the old clothes, and blankets they could find, borrow or steal. Their little section of the room is separated by a big, pine book stands that tower over both of their heads. The shelves are filled with some college textbooks, classic sci-fi, and Tolkien, but mostly space is occupied by Harlequins, paranormal romances and _a lot_ of Dan Brown. 

Doyoung thinks it’s not as bad as it sounds.

Sure, it's quite uncomfortable, and there's not a lot of room, especially for two grown men, but at least he's not alone. At least he has Yuta and Taeyong to laugh at all the badly written books they've entertained themselves with over the past few weeks. He doesn't know much about them, he isn't sure whether he wants to, to be frank. Maybe if he had met them before everything went to shit, they could've been close friends. The kind of friends that, really, actually, trust each other. But that's not going to happen now, or ever.

Doyoung wishes he didn’t remember the first day of the outbreak. He was never good at predicting things in general, or at least he never understood when people said they just knew something bad was going to happen, but in the weeks preceding the event he could feel the anxiety building up. It slowly drowned out anything else, twined in between his everyday thoughts, and made him look out for signs of something being wrong, out of place. The constant knot in his stomach untied itself when the news broke out.

He was sitting by the kitchen table and eating breakfast, absentmindedly surfing through social media with the TV playing in the background. As he used to do. He’s almost ashamed of it now, but then, when he first heard about the early victims, he felt relief. Or more precisely, cold comfort. 

At that moment, his unexplained, constant irritability, anxiety and stress started to make sense. It felt like anticipating a flu shot or getting hit with full force and finally feeling the pain, the relief.

Even though the media, and the general public for that matter, believed that everything was going to be okay. That everything was under control, and the government would take care of it all. Doyoung trusted his intuition more than the press. He bought the first train ticket to his hometown and stayed with his father through it all. He held his hand each day in the morning when they announced more and more victims. He helped him stock up on the food, water, first aid, and everything else they needed. He was there when the power ran out, and when his father first started coughing and then choking on his blood. And during this time he had welcomed a new, ever-present feeling in his chest, _helplessness_.

Doyoung couldn’t bring himself to cry after his father. Not because the sorrow didn’t overfill his insides like a black, sticky grease. But because he _knew_ it wasn’t the end, there’ll be more suffering, and more grief he’ll have to endure. And he won’t be able to do anything about it. 

***

The next train arrives with people almost spilling out from the windows and doors. The seamless mass of faces and tangled, malnourished bodies, almost doesn't look human. It almost reminds Doyoung of animals being led to the slaughter. 

There’s a part of him that knows it’s not true, these people aren’t going to die, they actually have a chance of survival. _Unlike him_.

He, Yuta and Taeyong are standing on a platform, watching the train pass by before their eyes, and feeling the cold air blowing in their faces, making their hair and clothes flutter in all directions. The winter should come soon, the temperature has already lowered enough for their breaths to be visible, dancing in the air every time they exhale.

Doyoung immediately notices the disappointment in Yuta’s eyes. He isn’t fast enough to comfort him, because it’s Taeyong who opens his mouth first, letting his deep voice soothe Yuta.

“Next time,” he says reassuringly in the direction of both Yuta and Doyoung. Even though Doyoung has told him, he doesn't believe he's going to make it. Or maybe he doesn't want to.

Doyoung doesn't wish for the death to come. But he also doesn't wish with all of his remaining hope to survive. Mentally he's in the limbo between restless, stubborn fight and quiet, passive acceptance.

Just like he anticipated the outbreak weeks before, he's anticipating his end soon.

“Next time,” Doyoung repeats the phrase like a mantra, like a spell that will come true if he says it enough times, and links his arms with Yuta. The other man leans to the touch, shortening the distance between them.

“For sure,” Yuta says halfheartedly, putting his head on Doyoung's shoulder.

***

The plague has no visible symptoms. The illness slowly eats you from the inside, damaging your organs, nerves and blood vessels until there’s nothing more to wreck. Until you’re a walking corpse, ready to collapse with the gentlest blow of the wind. 

Doyoung doesn’t know whether he’s immune, or the disease is taking its time with him. When his father fell ill he didn’t care about getting infected, he didn’t abandon him and left to die alone in their apartment. Doyoung concluded that it didn’t matter if his father had carried the virus before, or had caught it later, after the outbreak, because in either case, it meant that Doyoung had come in contact with it. And that he was essentially fucked no matter what he did. 

So he decided to stay and help him. Look after him in his last days, exchange last jokes and heartfelt goodbyes and then, when the time came, when his father's heart stopped beating and his lungs ran out of the air to breathe, bury him. 

In the morning after, Doyoung dug out a shallow grave, buried his father with a family photo in his now, cold hands, and with a half-forgotten prayer on his lips set off to an unknown destination.

His backpack was full of food, warm clothes, a few knives, some alcohol, cigarettes, and tea for trade. In his wallet, he carried old photos of his family and friends, taken during birthday parties and weddings. During much better times. But nothing that happened then seemed real anymore, nothing from back then has survived in a sense. The world has irreversibly changed. 

He traveled either alone or temporarily joined bigger refugee groups, always leaving them after a few days or weeks. When he wasn't actively seeking other survivors he preferred to stay in the woods. It was easier that way

Doyoung isn't a particularly gifted huntsman but there isn't much a good gun traded for all the cigarettes he had can't fix. It meant that every couple of days he could eat something other than dry rations. And that seemed to be enough for the time being.

***

Even while he's dying, Taeyong emits his usual, calming aura. He's still cheerful and still reassures Yuta that everything is going to be okay.

It makes Doyoung mad that someone can be this comfortable with their mortality. He expected Taeyong to fight, to deny his state and insist that he's going to feel better any day now. Instead, Taeyong is honest, he doesn't hide the stains of blood on the handkerchief or the fact that his stomach doesn't correctly process the food anymore, which means he's even skinnier than before. 

No, he accepts it, talks about it openly and even cracks a dark joke every so often. 

“ _Bury me with a copy of The Da Vinci Code, Doyoung!”_ he laughs one evening. And even though it stings like pouring hydrogen peroxide over a cut, Doyoung laughs with him.

Doyoung was sure he was the first to go, he had come in contact with the virus way before Taeyong or Yuta. It's how this is supposed to work. Except that, for the past few months, nothing has been working how it was supposed to.

He’s tired of not being in control of his life. 

He’s tired of living in the waiting room of a train station, of sleeping on the floor and seeing more, and more people die every day. Doyoung isn’t religious, but he's really starting to feel like he’s living in some version of Purgatory. He just wishes he knew what sins he’s paying for. The simple act of living is starting to feel like a punishment. 

***

Doyoung decides to go west. He has no plan, he doesn't know where he's going or where he _wants_ to go. But he knows he can't stay at the train station. Not after Taeyong's death. 

Nothing is keeping him there anymore. He’s not waiting to get into a government facility like Yuta so there’s no point in taking up the valuable space there.

He’s walking through a thick patch of forest next to a road, it’s been a few days since he entered it in fact, but there are still no signs of any settlements, deserted or not. Doyoung’s getting worried, he’s running low on rations and he’s had no luck with hunting. And where used to be people, there still is food to be found from his experience. 

The asphalt road he’s been following suddenly takes a turn to the left and after maybe two kilometers, Doyoung’s greeted by the sight of an abandoned building. The place isn’t completely trashed, the windows, in the front at least, are still intact, and while it’s overgrown with vines and other plants, everything else looks intact. He decides to explore it.

Back in the day, it must’ve been a holiday resort of sorts, judging by its size and the fact that it was built right next to a lake. Doyoung goes through all of the guest rooms, checks the kitchen and the lobby. He finds some useful items and rations, not enough to stay here for a long time, but enough to make a stop for a few days.

There’s also something akin to a ballroom, maybe a cafeteria or a conference hall, Doyoung isn’t sure, but the room is big and empty, the floor covered by dust. Except for a queen size mattress laying in the corner. And a man is sitting on the said mattress, his frame small and his dark brown hair getting into his eyes. He's reading a book, completely unaware of Doyoung's presence.

Doyoung clears his throat to get his attention. The man immediately stands up, his eyes wide, and runs in the direction of the exit door. Doyoung follows him but when he’s out of the building he can’t see him anymore. He’s alone again.

***

Doyoung decides to take a walk in the evening. He wants to see the lake at night.

The sky is cloudy and you can’t see the stars but it doesn’t matter to him right now. He breathes in the chilly air, feels it travel to his lungs and then back up again and just enjoys looking at the smooth surface of the water, the way it reflects the light from his flashlight. 

Doyoung sees someone on the shore.

“Who are you?” he shouts in the direction of the figure, his voice echoing. “Do you live here?” he tries again when he gets no answer.

“I’m Doyoung, I was just passing by this place, please, I’m not going to hurt you! If you want I can leave first thing in the morning!”

“Please don’t,” the figure says and comes closer to Doyoung. It’s the man from earlier. “Please, I have no one else.” He’s slouching as to make himself small. 

“What’s your name?” Doyoung asks.

“Jungwoo.”

***

Doyoung doesn’t suspect anything in the begging. Sure, he’s never seen Jungwoo eat or sleep, but he’s only been here for a day or two, and, frankly, there’s weirder shit happening in the world. But once he actually notices it, it starts to bug him. He's afraid to confront Jungwoo about it though. 

It's something about this man that throws him completely off. 

"Why haven't you asked yet?" says Jungwoo one day while laying on the mattress next to Doyoung. They're killing time, doing crossword puzzles and reading books. Doyoung would never guess the apocalypse would be so boring.

"About what?"

"What am I? It's not hard to notice I'm not human, I wouldn't be able to survive here on my own."

"I.." Doyoung begins but doesn't know what he actually wants to say. "What are you, Jungwoo?"

"A nymph."

Doyoung just accepts it. That's why he lives by the lake then. He doesn't know whether he wants to ask any more questions.

"Were you always like this?" 

"No," Jungwoo answers, his voice unsure. "No, I used to be human, like you."

"What happened then?"

He looks at Doyoung, his expression's intense and his eyes seem to be drilling holes into Doyoung's soul.

"I died."

***

Maybe it's because there's no one else in Doyoung's life anymore, but he grows attached to Jungwoo rather quickly. The days are starting to become colder now and it's pleasant to have something to talk to, to listen to your rants.

It doesn't matter Jungwoo isn't human, it never mattered. Doyoung is happy to have company. Any company.

***

Even though Doyoung can't touch Jungwoo, he holds his hands over his shoulders. He moves one step back and Jungwoo follows, only a fraction of a second too late for it to look like he knows what to do, and where to move. 

“Have you ever danced?” he asks, a playful smile showing up on his lips.

“I don’t remember.” Doyoung can't pinpoint why, but the look in Jungwoo’s eyes awakens utter sadness inside of him. It's not full of regret or woe, Jungwoo's expression is neutral, relaxed even, but his eyes communicate something that nothing else can. The kind of longing that burns your insides. “I probably have, but I’ve forgotten how by now. You should teach me.” 

“It's nothing difficult, really,” Doyoung states. “Put your hands on my shoulders and I'll put mine on your waist, tah-dah!” He grins. ”Ideally I'd put my head on your shoulder, and nestle up, but well… We have to improvise this part.” They start moving slowly to the imagined slow tune.

“Sorry…”

“Don't be, you didn't choose this form, it's not your fault that I can't touch you.”

“But I wish _you_ could,” Jungwoo mutters into Doyoung's ear. “I wish to touch you, to play with your hair and hold your hand.” He cups Doyoung's jaw with his palms. “I wish you could feel this.” 

There's a moment of silence, no longer than a heartbeat or two, but in Doyoung's mind, the seconds proceeding his response are an eternity.

“I do.” Jungwoo's eyes widen in surprise. “I hadn't noticed it before but I do _feel_ you,” Doyoung admits.

“It feels like aftertouch? Like nothing is really here, but it _was_ seconds before.” For a moment the other man looks confused, but then he smiles brilliantly, sparks of excitement showing up in his eyes.

“I've got an idea,” he says softly right into Doyoung's ear. “But I need you to close your eyes.” A jolt of anticipation goes through Doyoung's spine.

“Sure…” he mutters and obeys Jungwoo, eyes closing instantly.

He feels a small touch on his face, fingertips caressing his cheekbone, lightly as if not to break him, not to leave anything behind. 

Jungwoo gives him a quick peck on the lips, it's not passionate, or bashful. It reminds Doyoung more of touching the soft petals of a flower than any other kisses he's experienced before. It's gentle and light, just like Jungwoo is. Just like Jungwoo consists of soft lines, messy hair and wide smiles.

Doyoung opens his eyes, gaze transfixed on the nymph.

“I know it's bold, but, can you --uhm-- could you kiss me some more?” He lets out a short, nervous laugh.

Jungwoo's shoulders shake as he chuckles. “You're literally the opposite of bold, Doyoung.” 

There's no time for Doyoung to get embarrassed, or say something he's going to regret later because Jungwoo shuts him up with a second kiss. It's still gentle and slow, but Doyoung can sense how much Jungwoo is holding back now that he knows, that Doyoung wants this as well. 

And oh god, words can't express how much he wants _this._

***

The day Jungwoo tells him how he had died, Doyoung realizes that he's not as indifferent as he hoped.

“Oh, come here, my dear Doyoung,” Jungwoo says so gently, so quietly, barely moving his lips that Doyoung isn't sure whether he's imaging it or not. He reaches out to embrace the other man, to touch him, to feel their skin touching and hear his breathing.

When he reaches out his hand it doesn't come in contact with a body, it goes through Jungwoo's image, through his ghost. Doyoung's palm hovers over a space, where Jungwoo's heart should be. 

Something in Doyoung breaks with a loud crack that's audible only to him.

The emotion starts to overfill his insides, the black, sticky liquid he calls grief, pours in and cascades from his heart. It fills his lungs, makes it hard to breathe, and spills out of eyes as tears.

He chokes on his breath, making a wailing sound. He can feel his knees bend, it’s not a conscious decision, but he doesn’t have the energy to protest. His legs hit the cold, dusty floor with a thud, Doyoung curls up, his forehead touching his knees. 

It’s too much, everything is too much. He wants to disappear, for these feelings to vanish, to leave him alone, to not feel anything ever again. 

He wishes he’d never met Jungwoo, because now that he got a tiny taste of, true, genuine happiness, the events from the past year seem so much more horrific. So, so much more heartbreaking and upsetting.

Doyoung pities himself, he feels pathetic for breaking down in such an insignificant moment. Compared to the death of his father, the loss of Taeyong and separation from Yuta, hearing Jungwoo's story shouldn't be such a deal. He should be untouched, heartless by now. 

And yet, none of these adjectives suit him.

He doesn’t understand how Jungwoo does it, how does he make Doyoung aware of the pain he’s bearing inside. He bares Doyoung’s emotions like one would reveal a beautiful painting. But instead of precise brush strokes, and vivid colors, the canvas is covered by unintended splashes of muddy, brown paint. 

The tears won’t stop coming, they've formed an unbroken stream, Doyoung is consciously trying to even his breath, to regain some control over his body, but nothing seems to work. 

Jungwoo crouches next to him, his movements are careful and gentle.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t worry, just breath,” the man whispers. “Take it easy, focus on breathing through your nose, exhale through your mouth, yes, just like that.” Doyoung feels Jungwoo reach out to touch his head, the other man is gently stroking and playing with his hair, calming Doyoung down. He’s finally able to even his breath, Jungwoo’s presence soothing him.

“I _—_ I’m so sorry,” he sobs out, his voice distorted and unrecognizable to his ears, “I don't under _—_ don’t know why it’s _—_ it’s just too much.”

“Don’t worry, nothing bad happened,” Jungwoo reassures him. “Sometimes everything, the world, is too much. I’ll stay with you, as long as you need it, okay?”

Doyoung snivels in response.

***

Jungwoo deserves much better than him, Doyoung thinks. 

Only a few weeks ago Doyoung was ready to throw his life away, to give up like a coward. This partially remains unchanged, but right now his only wish is to stay with the other man. And the only way to stay with Jungwoo is to become like him.

***

It’s the first time he sees Yuta in months. And yet, it doesn't feel like it, because Yuta has changed. He seems like a different person now. Long, untamed black hair still the same, but the look in his eyes, as well as his posture, communicates the willingness to fight, not the neverending patience like before. 

Yuta's not the only different person. Present Doyoung doesn't recognize _this_ Yuta. _This_ man is like a stranger to him, and he hopes the feeling is mutual because it's only fair that way. 

Doyoung won't grieve for the spark of hope past Yuta could ignite inside of him, no matter how much it helped him, and how much it hurts that it is seemingly gone now. Because grieving after things that may have never existed is never productive. 

“You’re alive,” Yuta states shocked, a smile lighting up his whole face. He’s beautiful like this, Doyoung thinks, happy. It’s such a shame that it won’t last. It never lasts.

Doyoung simply nods in agreement, not sure what to say. Yuta steps up to him, his sniper gun motionless thanks to the strap across his chest. He embraces Doyoung tightly, putting his head on Doyoung’s shoulder.

“I--I looked for you everywhere. I didn’t know where you went that night, I didn’t care, I was so angry at first. But then I couldn’t find you anywhere, I thought I had lost you.” he says in short, breathy sentences. 

“I’m sorry…” Doyoung manages to say without his voice cracking.

“I’m glad that I finally found you.” Yuta looks into his eyes, and for a second Doyoung can pretend that it’s still autumn. That the weeks he has spent with Jungwoo never happened, and there’s no one besides Yuta. 

He smiles in response. 

***

“You've been living here?” Yuta asks when he enters the small canteen that has been Doyoung's home for a few weeks. 

He nods in agreement. “There's a mattress and all of my stuff.” He points to the queen size mattress, piles of clothes and stashes of books laying in the corner of the room. 

“Alone?” 

Silence fills the room, and Doyoung can't help but be paralyzed by the question. He can't tell Yuta about Jungwoo, he won't understand, and most likely will demand to see the nymph. Doyoung doesn't understand why but the thought of Yuta meeting Jungwoo makes him sick with anxiety. 

“Yeah. I've found some food in the kitchen, and there were some blankets and books in the old rooms.” 

“But why do you even live here?” in Doyoung’s ears Yuta’s tone sounds accusatory, like he’s asking him about a crime he’s committed, like he’s already guilty. 

_Because it's close enough to the lake, because Jungwoo can still appear here,_ Doyoung answers in his head. 

“The first night I heard other people in the building, I got scared and started sleeping here instead.” Yuta glances at the corner of the room.

“I’m not asking about the canteen, Doyoung, I’m asking about _this place._ Why do live _here_ ? Why didn’t you come back to the station?” _to me_ , Doyoung adds in his mind.

“I don’t think I know why myself.” _Because of Jungwoo._ “At first I wanted to come back, but with every day I found myself less, and less willing to leave this place.” _He’s the reason, he’s the only reason_. “When you isolate yourself from everyone it’s hard to just move on.” He looks up at the other man. “Yuta, I’m so sorry.” He's not. The words feel empty, they’re weightless on his tongue, escaping from his mouth before Doyoung can understand their importance or true intention. 

“You’re not though. Or at least it doesn’t feel like it.” Yuta breaks eye contact.

“What else do you want from me then? I’ve already apologized, if you don’t think I’m being honest with you that’s your problem, not mine.” The tone of Doyoung’s voice is harsh and unintentionally loud, as if spoken by someone else entirely.

“I want to know the reason why, I don't care about apologies.” No matter how much Yuta has changed, he still wears his heart on his sleeve, and the look of utter hurt on his face snaps Doyoung out of whatever was happening with him. 

It’s a snap decision, a one that Doyoung doesn’t actually want to make. But it’s too late now. 

“I’ll show you.” Yuta blinks, confused. “Tonight, I’ll show you.”

***

The lake is quiet this time of the year, the water is motionless, its surface flat and barely moving, reflecting the moonlight like it's the biggest mirror in the entire world. Jungwoo, on the other hand, seems to be anything but calm. His hair is a mess, it looks more like a nest with the various branches, leaves, and feathers sticking out of it, it’s almost like they’re braided into his hair, like he’s done it on purpose.

His clothes are soaking wet, clinging to his slim frame, to his pale skin and protruding bones. Doyoung looks into his eyes, trying to find an answer but the other man doesn’t seem aware of the state he’s in. He’s just standing there at the edge of the lake, looking into the distance. Doyoung wants to run to him, to check what happened but Yuta doesn’t let him, he grabs his hand and doesn’t let go. Even when Doyoung starts to struggle, to scream and kick.

He manages to tackle Yuta and they wrestle on the damp grass, the dirt getting into Doyoung’s mouth and eyes, under his clothes, it scratches his skin, gets under his nails. He punches Yuta, he punches him with all of the desperation and determination he has in himself. He doesn’t even know where, that’s not important. Only Jungwoo matters rights now.

He runs to him, tripping on the branches and tall grass, sinking into the mud and splashing the water. Only he matters to Doyoung.

The nymph doesn’t answer his cries and pleas, he just stares at him with a distant smile and a blissful expression. Doyoung touches him, touches his wet and slick and glistening skin, and everywhere he touches it starts to darken, to take on a purple, disgusting hue. He throws himself at Jungwoo and clings to his cold body and doesn’t let go. It doesn't occur to him that just yesterday it was impossible for him to touch the nymph, it doesn’t matter right now.

Then, Jungwoo moves, he takes Doyoung’s hand and intertwines their fingers tightly. 

“My dear,” he says, his voice sounding like he’s underwater, it’s distant and distorted, and Doyoung’s heart starts to beat so fast he starts to hear the blood rushing in his veins. “Come with me, please.” He starts going into the lake, the water circling around him like it’s welcoming him like it can’t wait to swallow him whole again. Doyoung follows him without a word.

Jungwoo leads him into the water, and in the beginning, it scares Doyoung, he doesn’t want to immerse into the water, but first, it touches his ankles, then his calves and then knees, and then he forgets why he was even scared. He trusts Jungwoo after all.

Now the water is touching his lips and Doyoung just allows it to kiss him, to fill his mouth and touch him, take him as its. He puts his head underwater and doesn’t open his eyes.

And he sinks.

And sinks.

Through the water, he hears a bang. It’s probably a gunshot, Yuta took a gun with him after all, he's sure of it.

Someone cups his jaw, he feels another body next to him. Doyoung doesn’t know which way is up, and which way is down anymore, but he will soon find out which way that person is dragging him. 

**Author's Note:**

> jungwoo is what is called a "topielec", a malicious water spirit that drowns people because they died the same way, yay for slavic cryptids (?). this would have been longer if it didn't sit so long in my drafts i stopped caring a bit, sorry... anyway, i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless!
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


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